Fetch
by TARDIS Blue Carbuncle
Summary: This is a follow-up to my Christmas-fic, Christmas on the Doorstep. John plays fetch with Toby, and Sherlock learns something new. Funniness ensues. Rated for minor cursing.


**Author's note: Hello, Reader. I am done with school finals, and the business of ending the semester. With the new semester and a new-ish year, I can once again turn my attention to my favorite site on the Web: !**

**This particular piece chronicles the adventure of Toby, Sherlock's and John's bull pup. This might become a series, but we'll see how this one goes. Yes, the name is in direct relation to Sir Arthur Conan Doyle's story, _The Sign of Four_. Which leads me to quick disclaimers: Sherlock and John belong to Doyle and Steven Moffat, yet the adventures and the dog, if not the name, belong to me.**

**This takes place after my other fic, _Christmas on the Doorstep. _I would recommend that you read that first. Finally, thanks to Gollum Slayer 576 and to Blue TARDIS Everdeen for their editing and support. Thank you.**

**Sincerely,**

**TARDIS Blue Carbuncle**

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><p>Afghanistan had taught Captain John Watson many things.<p>

In the dry hills and the rocky deserts of the Middle East, one of the first things John learned was that disobedience was lethal, and often more dangerous than a sniper's bullets or a tiny, hidden land mine. About a month into his service, a particularly nasty ambush brought John about an inch away from death, and the only reason he emerged unscathed was that he obeyed his officer's command to duck. The army had one code above all others, and it spoke to man's greatest instinct: _follow your orders and you'll survive another minute, another hour, another day._

The soldier standing in front of John had a history of insubordination. He had been a part of the Fifth Northumberland Fusiliers for only a week, and John was already hearing complaints from some of his colleagues. According to some of them, many regiments had the young private in their ranks, only to hand him to the next one when he became troublesome. This time, the young man had found something particularly valuable while on guard duty, and refused to give it up to his superior officer. The small young man sat in front of him, his pale skin in contrast to his beige uniform. A black curl of his hair hung in front of his left eye, which also sported a black bruise, and a wide, mocking smile graced his face. In his left hand lay the valuable item and the soldier toyed with it in plain sight. The soldier's sad, brown eyes glanced up at John, daring him to do something.

John stared the soldier in the eye. He was in no position to tolerate insubordinate behavior, considering that the whole regiment's lives were at risk because of this item. John angrily pulled at the end of his uniform and straightened his back in defiance. The soldier's smile disappeared from his face, and a bemused look replaced it. John raised his chin, pointed to the solder, and barked his order:

"Toby, release the ball."

Toby, the bull-pup that wandered into John's life less than three months ago, stared up at John with sad, brown eyes, and whimpered in defiance. John shivered despite the heavy, brown coat that he wore. He exhaled in irritation, and a white cloud formed in front of his face. Just as John thought he would have to get the ball himself, Toby leaned forward and dropped the slightly slobbery tennis ball at John's feet. He sat back on his haunches and looked back up at John, panting happily.

John leaned over, scooped the tennis ball out of the slight layer of snow, and patted Toby on his tiny head, muttering in a loving tone, "Good boy, Toby." John straightened up and then declared, "You're getting better at this game than you were a week ago. Here, Toby…" John held the tennis ball out in front of him with a gloved hand, tantalizingly close to Toby's mouth. Toby leaped up and barked at the tennis ball, hampered by the snow underneath him and his own small body.

John drew his good arm back, and then pitched it forward, yelling, "Fetch, Toby!" John let the ball fly from his hand, and Toby immediately turned around and gave chase, barking the whole way. To John's consternation, then horror, the ball flew just out of sight, and so did Toby.

_Bloody Hell, _John thought to himself as he broke into a jog in the direction of Toby's barks, _I did not mean to throw the ball THAT far!_

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><p>Regent's Park was within walking distance of Baker Street, a fact that became quite convenient to John once Toby was old enough to take walks. Three months ago, 221B was large enough for Toby to bounce around with his seemingly endless energy, and he would get enough exercise. Now, Toby had grown to the point that 221B was not large enough in which to get a decent walk. Therefore, Regent's Park suddenly became quite important in John's routine.<p>

Every other day, John would call Toby to the door, attach a red leash to the pup's matching collar, and walk him to Regent's Park. There, John would spend an hour either walking Toby or playing with him. Recently, John had been teaching Toby how to play fetch.

Regent's Park also happened to be almost empty this time of year, another fact for which John was relieved. _That way, _he thought as he ran through the park, fresh snow crunching under his feet, _there won't be anyone to stare in case I have to do this again. _John kept running, and with each breath he took, a small white cloud escaped from his lips and disappeared into the air behind him. In front of him, Toby's high-pitched barks echoed through the air, and John followed those barks as if his life depended upon it.

Then, John's heart turned cold when Toby's barking immediately ceased.

For a moment, John stood still and waited for Toby to bark again. Aside from his own heavy breathing, John heard nothing. Then, he glanced around for any sign of the pup, yet saw nothing. John glanced down in frustration, and saw some indentations in the snow. He knelt in the snow to get a better look, and saw that they were tracks. _Puppy tracks, _he thought to himself as he smacked his cold forehead with his gloved hand, _why didn't I think of that before?_

"Because you're an idiot."

Startled, John leaped to his feet and glanced up. There, standing before him, was Sherlock Holmes. "Sherlock!" John cried as he brushed the snow off his knees, "Jesus, you know that I hate it when you sneak up on me like that!"

The thin, pale, yet imposing figure merely looked back at him with his pale gray eyes. "John, I am wearing black, and the park is completely covered with snow; I think I am quite conspicuous," Sherlock responded as he reached over to John's shoulder and brushed away a stray patch of snow, getting some white on his black leather gloves. "I can't help it if you choose to ignore the rest of the universe for minutes at a time."

"Still," John retorted, "I hate being scared to death. I've had more than enough of that in Afghanistan." Then, John remembered the reason for his chase, and asked, "Sherlock, have you seen Toby? He went this way chasing a ball, and—"

"You mean the pup that is now panting happily at my feet?" Sherlock asked, raising one of his eyebrows.

John leaned to one side to glance behind Sherlock. There, at his feet, was Toby. The pup lay on his stomach with the tennis ball between his two front legs; he glanced up at John, gave a small bark, and his stub-of-a-tail wagged eagerly. John stepped around Sherlock and leaned down toward Toby, shaking his head in disbelief and cooing, "Toby, you silly puppy! I swear, one day, I'm going to get a heart attack because of your antics." Then, he ran his hand through Toby's fur and continued with, "I should have named you Trouble."

Sherlock crossed his arms and shook his head. "No," he muttered as John fastened the red leash to Toby's collar and slowly stood, "If you are considering changing Toby's name, might I suggest Armageddon?"

John smiled and replied, "No, I can't name him after you."

Sherlock's brows furrowed and he pursed his thin, pale lips. "Pardon?"

"Haven't you heard?" John asked, shrugging, "If you look up 'Sherlock' on any website, the dictionary lists the synonyms as 'destruction', 'Armageddon', 'ultimate doom', and 'the evil fairy that gives people their gray hairs'." _Armageddon Holmes, _John thought in the split second before Sherlock could react, _that has a rather nice ring to it._

The corner of Sherlock's mouth turned up in a smile and he replied, "The name John translates into English as 'fish-face', and Watson, if memory serves me correctly, translates into 'contagiously insane blogger'." However, the veil of composure fell over Sherlock's face, and he changed the subject, asking, "John, why was Toby chasing a tennis ball?"

"Oh," John coughed as he flipped his hand in a careless manner, "Toby and I were playing fetch, and I threw the ball too far."

"Fetch? What's fetch?"

John gaped at Sherlock. He gasped, "You don't know what fetch is? First you tell me that you deleted the Solar System, and now you tell me that you don't know what fetch is? Sherlock, did you sell your childhood to the Devil or something?"

Sherlock gave John a blank stare and deadpanned, "He offered me immortality, but I declined. Immortality is boring." Sherlock adjusted his scarf and continued with, "Now, will you please explain to me what this 'fetch' game is?"

John rolled his green eyes in exasperation, rubbed the back of his hat-covered head, and sighed, "This… is weird that I have to explain what fetch is, but okay." Then he bent over, unclipped Toby from his leash, and whispered in Toby's ear as he petted him, "Okay, Toby; let's show Sherlock how to play fetch."

Toby responded with a short bark as he scrambled to his feet. His stub-of-a-tail wagged wildly and he panted in anticipation as his brown eyes, with a black spot over the left eye, hungrily watched the tennis ball in John's hand. John explained, "First step, Sherlock, is to throw the ball." John turned toward Toby and lobbed the ball in the air, careful not to throw the ball out of sight like he did earlier. Toby immediately turned a tight circle and dashed after the flying ball as fast as his young, tiny legs could carry him.

John glanced to Sherlock, and saw to his amusement that Sherlock held his chin in his right hand in thought, stroking it lightly with his index finger. He supported his thin arm on the other arm that he still held across his body. His gray eyes were hooded, and his pronounced cheekbones moved slightly as Sherlock muttered to himself. John smiled when he realized that Sherlock was studying Toby, the ball as it landed in the snow about thirty feet away, and the game itself as if it were a crime in action.

Toby's head dove under the snow, and a moment later emerged with the snow-covered ball in his mouth. Toby trotted back, head held high, as if he were holding a prize worth more than anything else. John crouched to the pup's level, and held out his hand as Toby came within arm's distance. Without hesitation, Toby's jaw went slack, and the ball dropped straight into John's hand. John stood, and saw that Sherlock remained in his studious position. For a moment, neither of them moved. Sherlock waited for John to demonstrate another development in the game, and John waited for Sherlock to spout insults on how childish and idiotic the game was.

John was the first one to act. He glanced around, shrugged, and said, "That's basically all there is. So, questions?"

Sherlock lowered his arms to his side and asked, "What is the object of fetch?"

That question caught John off guard for a moment. _Object? There is no goal in fetch, _he thought to himself. Then, in a moment of genius, John replied, "The goal is simple: don't lose the ball."

"Does the arc of the path of the ball matter?"

"No."

"The velocity of the ball does not matter?"

"No."

"What about the distance traveled?"

"No."

"Are there more points given if Toby catches it midair?"

"No, Sherlock."

"There's nothing else other than throwing the ball and having the dog scamper off and get it? That hardly qualifies as a game—"

"You're making this game more damn complicated than it really is!"

Sherlock nodded in understanding, and then, after a moment of silence, held his hand out to John. John creased his brows, and his whole face morphed into confusion. Sherlock sighed, as if trying to reason with a child, and asked, "Might I have a go? The game seems simple enough."

The light went on in John's green eyes, and with a mutter of, "Oh, yes, yes, of course, go ahead, Sherlock," John handed the tennis ball to Sherlock.

Sherlock stared at the ball, and absently tossed into the air once. That drove Toby bonkers, and the little pup emitted a flurry of barks and growls. Sherlock looked at the pup, and thought to himself, _why on Earth does that dog get so excited over a ball? _He then made a mental note to himself to design an experiment to discover the answer to his question. Toby began to whimper incessantly, and those pitiful whimpers drove knives through Sherlock's heart. He held his hands up in surrender and shouted, "Toby! Quiet! I'll throw it!" Then, Sherlock drew his arm back and paused a moment to see what Toby would do. Toby was on all four feet, and was now barking. From behind him, John sighed, "Sherlock, you're making Toby mad. Just throw the bloody ball!"

Sherlock flung his arm forward and let the ball fly. Toby gave chase, barking at the ball as if it were an intruder, or a menace. This interested Sherlock, and he kept watching, observing as he did so. Toby skidded to a halt just past the hole in the snow where the ball landed, shoved his head into the snow, and trotted back with his prize.

Sherlock crouched, careful not to get snow on him, and held his black-gloved hand out to Toby as he came within an arm's distance. Sherlock rationalized that, from observing John play with Toby, the dog would walk straight to him and drop the ball into his hand.

There were a few times in Sherlock Holmes' career that he was wrong. This was one of those times.

Instead of walking straight up to Sherlock, Toby halted just out of Sherlock's reach. The pup tilted his head to the right, as if he were deciding whether the tall, thin man in the black coat was safe. Then, he unexpectedly turned around and leaped twice away from Sherlock, and turned again to face him.

Sherlock, with an irritated look on his face, stood and took a few steps toward Toby, with his hand still outstretched. Toby leaped just to the right of the detective and ran toward John. Sherlock turned on his heel and gave chase, calling out, "Toby! Toby! Stop!"

Toby utterly ignored him, and ran past John, who held his hand to his mouth to cover the grin that was slowly forming. Sherlock's coat billowed behind him as he chased after Toby, while the pup showed some amazing skill at strategic thinking. When Sherlock began to close in on Toby, Toby would abruptly change directions, which would cause Sherlock to stumble and lose momentum. All the while, Sherlock yelled at Toby, shouting things like, "Toby, stop! Toby, why aren't you playing right? Toby, you're cheating! TOBY! JOHN! Control your dog! JOOOHHHNNN!"

John was no longer trying to hide his smirking. _Oh, God, _he thought to himself as Toby dashed out of Sherlock's grasp for the tenth time, _Toby is literally running in circles around Sherlock!_ Toby had changed tactics, and rather than try to outrun Sherlock, he outmaneuvered the detective. Toby ran around and around Sherlock, ducking this way and that whenever Sherlock reached for him.

Then, the unthinkable happened. Sherlock reached for Toby again, this time anticipating the pup's circular path. Yet, rather than go around Sherlock again, Toby ran between Sherlock's legs, and rammed into Sherlock's left leg. Sherlock lost his balance, and fell. He clawed at the air for something to hold on to, but all he grasped was nothing, and he fell, ungracefully and facedown, in the snow.

Sherlock rolled onto his back, and pain suddenly shot up his leg. Sherlock sat up and gingerly held his right ankle. _Merely a sprain, or a twisted ankle, _he thought to himself as he probed the injury.

Toby, in an attempt to tease Sherlock more, ran right by the detective's face. However, Sherlock was slightly faster. He reached out with his right hand and snatched Toby's collar, yanking the pup to the ground. Sherlock got to his knees, and held down the squirming pup with one hand. With the other, he reached toward Toby's mouth and took hold of the tennis ball. Sherlock pulled at the tennis ball and gasped, "Toby, give me the ball."

Rather than give up the ball, Toby yanked back and growled. Sherlock's mouth settled into a line, and he pulled harder. Toby threw back his head so fast that Sherlock lost his grip on the ball, but that victory was short-lived. Sherlock regained his grip and yanked, yelling, "GIVE. ME. THE. BALL! Toby! GIVE!"

Toby had other ideas.

The pup squirmed more, forcing Sherlock to let go of the pup's mouth. Then, Toby kicked back with his hind foot, and hit Sherlock in the nose. With a cry of surprise and pain, Sherlock released Toby and held his hands to his nose, while Toby quickly got to his feet and sprinted to the safety of Dr. John Watson.

Painfully, Sherlock got to his feet, and limped toward John, who was having trouble breathing due to uncontrollable laughter. John, trying to recover his breath, stared in horror and amusement at Sherlock.

Sherlock's normally colorless face was red, and his black hair hung around his eyes, wet with sweat and snow. His coat, pants, and gloves were speckled with white, and a trail of blood ran from Sherlock's nose to the top of his lip. His scarf had come undone and was hanging precariously over one of his shoulders, and Sherlock reached over to tie it securely around his neck. The limp and his nose made Sherlock appear even more ridiculous.

Sherlock continued to limp until he was right in front of John, whose shoulders were still heaving. He pursed his lips and deeply inhaled, which revealed to John that Sherlock's rage was fuming, and threatened to explode into a sarcastic comment. As predicted, Sherlock opened his mouth to speak, but John held up a hand and cut in, "Don't say anything, Sherlock."

With that same hand, John reached down toward the cowering, but happily panting, Toby. John commanded, "Toby, release."

Toby took a few steps toward John's hand and immediately dropped the ball. Then, Toby tilted his head toward Sherlock and barked twice before lying down and continuing to pant from his exertions. John stood straight, tossed the ball in the air once, caught it, and then glanced to Sherlock. He saw jealousy and rage behind those usually impassive gray eyes. John gave him a smile and commented, "I wonder what Lestrade would say if I told him that Sherlock Holmes was outwitted by a four-month-old puppy?"

With a cry of rage, Sherlock lunged for John.

The two men fell into the snow, John on bottom. Sherlock climbed on top of John and wrapped his arm around John's head and shoulder, trying to drive him further into the snow. John, gasping for air, grabbed a handful of snow and shoved it into Sherlock's face, rubbing it in as much as he could manage. Surprised at this attack, Sherlock let go, which allowed John to crawl to his knees and attempt an escape. As he tried to stand, Sherlock pounced and grabbed John's ankle, causing John to fall again. Keeping one hand on his ankle, Sherlock scrambled forward and shoved John's face into the snow, while John wildly punched at Sherlock.

All Toby could do was watch while Sherlock and John battled it out. The fight went on for another six to eight minutes before the boys began to tire. Finally, between gasps, John cried, "Sherlock! Sherlock! I give up! You win!"

Sherlock immediately released John from a particularly uncomfortable hold and sat in the snow. John, coughing and gasping for breath, crawled to Sherlock and sat down next to him. Both men now sported an assortment of bruises, patches of snow, and were completely soaked.

Toby, sensing that the fight was over, trotted up to them, and climbed into John's lap. The pup snuggled up to John's stomach, and plopped the tennis ball at John's feet. John ran his hand through Toby's fur, and then petted Toby's head repeatedly, and Sherlock leaned over and ran his hand over Toby's back.

John spoke first, sighing, "Sherlock… I think… that fetch is dangerous."

"I concur," Sherlock admitted. He got to his feet, a little painfully due to his aggravated sprained ankle, and then extended his hand down toward John. "Truce?"

John looked at the hand for a moment, then up at Sherlock, and took the hand. Sherlock pulled him to his feet, and as John put Toby on the ground and refastened the leash, he muttered, "Truce. Let's go home."

Sherlock removed his handkerchief, wiped the blood from his bruised nose, and smirked, "Mrs. Hudson will be quite upset if we track snow on her carpet."

"No," John protested as the two walked in the direction of Baker Street, "We'll use Toby as a bargaining chip. Mrs. Hudson melts at the sight of him."

Toby barked, and John and Sherlock laughed the entire walk home.


End file.
